He picked up his hat and coat and passed out of the room. . . .
Rome has much to offer. She offered much to Broke that April morning. But all he took was the aged Appian Way, tramping this steadily with an empty pipe between his teeth and the thin rain playing on his face. He had no eyes for his flank-guards, no thoughts for the pomp of traffic that had swept or stalked or stumbled over his present path to build a world. He was aware only of a proud, passionate face, angry, yet exquisite in anger—the face of a spoiled child.
Sixteen miles he covered before he returned to the hotel, hungry and healthily tired, but with a clear brain and steadfast heart.
He had been checking and weighing many things. He had reviewed his married life, faced the mistakes he had made and steeled himself to pay for every one of them. He had found himself wanting in patience, slow to make due allowance, visiting Eve with ills which his own shortcomings had begotten. More. The bill his heart had run up was truly formidable. To do his darling pleasure he had let everything rip for month after flashing month. He had smiled at this extravagance, abetted that whim, encouraged that vanity. They had drifted—gone as they pleased. The trivial round had been bought off; the common task compounded with. Discipline had become a dead letter; indulgence, Lord of Misrule. . . . And it was his fault. She was a child and—she had great possessions; so Life and Love had become two excellent games, effortless, fruitful. Indubitably it was his fault. He should have pointed the child, steadied her, used his experience. His failure was inexcusable, because he had been through the mill, seen that Life, at any rate, was no game—a stroll or a struggle, perhaps, according as Fate laid down, but not a game. The pity was they might have strolled so pleasantly. . . .
Jeremy had also reviewed the recent affray. He had decided that he had been clumsy, quick to anger and blunt. But he was perfectly certain, first, that his contention had been sound, and, secondly, that his withdrawal was wholly justified. Moreover, cost what it might, if ever again Eve laid such a whip across his shoulders, he would have to go. Had he been less punctilious, had he ever given his wife the slightest cause, it would have been different. As it was, to condone such usage would be fatal. Her respect for him, his respect for himself, would rapidly bleed to death, and Happiness would shrivel like a fallen leaf. There would, in fact, be nothing at all to stay for—unless one cared for Love with his tongue in his cheek. . . .
That she had drawn such a whip had opened Broke’s eyes. He had been hurt—naturally; but he was far more concerned. Ten months ago . . . Jeremy blamed himself very much indeed. He was, of course, most deeply in love with his wife. . . .
And she with him.
When he came in that evening she flung her arms round his neck and burst into tears.
“What do you think of me?” she wailed. “I must have been mad. You are so wonderful, Jeremy, so wonderfully sweet about it all: and then I take up your sweetness and slash you across the face. Jeremy boy, you’ve got a cad for a wife.”
Jeremy kissed her hair.